


all of our heroes fading

by ace_verity



Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Gen, Introspection, Past Matt Murdock/Karen Page, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Post-Season/Series 02, Reporter Karen Page, Sokovia Accords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22653760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ace_verity/pseuds/ace_verity
Summary: Karen’s only been at the Bulletin for three months when Ellison comes into her office and shuts the door behind him.“Pepper Potts wants to have lunch with you,” he says without preamble.---After leaving Nelson & Murdock and learning Daredevil's identity, Karen Page goes to Vienna to report on the signing of the Sokovia Accords.It doesn't go quite as expected.
Relationships: Franklin "Foggy" Nelson & Karen Page, Karen Page & Natasha Romanov, Karen Page & Pepper Potts, Matt Murdock & Karen Page, Matt Murdock/Karen Page, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	all of our heroes fading

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a random, fun idea I had, and the more I wrote and remembered the plots of Civil War and Daredevil s2, the more I realized that they share some interesting themes and ideas. I really enjoyed exploring those commonalities, and I hope I did it in a compelling way.
> 
> I also wanted to explore Matt's decision to 'retire' and consider how Karen might have reacted to the end of the firm and the Daredevil reveal, since these elements were left a little ambiguous in canon. 
> 
> In terms of timelines, this story is set about 3 months after the end of season 2, prior to the events of The Punisher season 1 and The Defenders. I operated under the assumption that Captain America: Civil War took place in that time slot, but of course the MCU's timelines don't align well with the Marvel TV shows, so my timeline choices were based on what worked for this story and made the most sense. It also disregards the flashback scene in Daredevil season 3 episode 1 (the one showing Matt and Karen talking in Matt's apartment.)
> 
> As always, I do not own Marvel and make no profit. Title from "Perfect Places" by Lorde.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Karen’s only been at the Bulletin for three months when Ellison comes into her office and shuts the door behind him.

“Pepper Potts wants to have lunch with you,” he says without preamble.

Somehow, Karen barely blinks at this revelation, which she’s quite proud of. “Did she say what she’d like to discuss?” she asks very calmly.

“The op-ed you wrote on Lagos,” Ellison answers. “Apparently she was impressed by your balanced approach to a… contentious issue. She finds your work on vigilantism rather impressive.”

“Ah,” Karen manages. “Well. I’d certainly appreciate the opportunity —”

“Good.” Ellison checks his watch. “You’d better get going — she doesn’t strike me as someone who likes to be kept waiting.”

Karen gapes at him. “ _Today?_ I thought —”

“You thought wrong,” he says, and he’s _smirking,_ the jerk. “Noon at the Mediterranean place on 55th and 10th. Have fun.”

Before she can muster a response, he’s out the door. Karen slumps back in her chair and can’t stop an incredulous laugh from escaping, because Virginia Potts, one of the most powerful women in the world, wants to have lunch with _her,_ Karen Page, because she’s read her work on vigilantism in the Kitchen. It’s practically a fever dream, one that Karen might have had back in undergrad when she’d read as many _Time_ and _Fortune_ articles about Stark Industries’ new CEO as she could get her hands on. 

So she’s going to eat lunch with the most powerful businesswoman on the planet, whom she’d maybe, _possibly_ (okay, _definitely_ ) had a crush on when she was a sophomore-year business major at Georgetown. 

What could possibly go wrong?

\---

It turns out that Pepper Potts is just as put-together in person as she is on the cover of every business magazine. She’s already seated at a corner table when Karen gets to the restaurant, and she stands and extends a perfectly-manicured hand to Karen.

“Pepper Potts,” she says, smiling warmly. “Lovely to finally meet you.”

Karen smiles back, a bit tentatively. “Karen Page. Thank you for reaching out.”

They sit, and a waiter is immediately upon them to take their drink orders. Pepper Potts orders some type of complicated fruit beverage, and Karen asks for the same. If it’s good enough for Pepper Potts, Karen reasons, it’s good enough for her. 

As soon as the waiter leaves, Ms. Potts leans forward. “Before I explain why I’ve asked to meet with you, may I ask a few questions about your background?”

“Of course, Ms. Potts,” Karen says, even though she’s pretty sure Tony Stark’s tech could summon more information about her in the blink of an eye than she even knows about herself. 

“Please, call me Pepper.” Ms. Potts — Pepper — tilts her head thoughtfully. “How long have you been a journalist?”

Karen isn’t entirely sure of that herself — whether it began during her investigation into Frank Castle, or even earlier during her time working with Ben on the Fisk case. So she settles on, “I began working at the Bulletin as a journalist three months ago, though I’d done some investigative work at my previous job.”

Their drinks arrive, and after they order their meals, Pepper takes a delicate sip of her drink before asking, “Your job at the law offices of Nelson and Murdock as their secretary?”

“Office manager,” Karen says automatically, then hides a wince. “But yes.”

“And you assisted in the Castle case, as well as the takedown of Wilson Fisk?”

 _Assisted in the Castle case_ , Karen thinks with more than a hint of bitterness. _As if Foggy and I didn’t do nearly all the work ourselves_. But she nods, keeping her face pleasantly neutral. 

Pepper studies her for a moment. “I must say, your work on vigilantism in Hell’s Kitchen is quite impressive. But your piece on the Lagos… incident,” she pauses before continuing, “caught my attention. Your measured approach and consideration of the whole story were impressive.” She stops here and looks at Karen almost expectantly.

“Thank you,” Karen says, mouth dry, and reaches for her drink. 

“Do you know Daredevil?”

It’s a miracle that Karen doesn’t spit out her drink. As it is, she swallows too fast and coughs as delicately as possible. “I’m sorry?”

“Have you ever encountered him?”

Karen relaxes. “Yes, he — he saved my life, and he contributed to the Fisk case a good deal.”

“I see.” Pepper takes another sip of her drink. “I apologize, Karen, I haven’t been very direct with you.”

At that moment, their food arrives, and Karen spends the next few minutes picking at her salad and trying not to die of anticipation. 

“As I was saying,” Pepper continues after they’ve each taken a few bites, “I haven’t been direct with you, Karen. You’ve heard about the upcoming United Nations gathering in Vienna?”

“I have,” Karen says, not sure where this conversation is headed.

“The media presence for these sorts of things is fairly limited.” Pepper dabs at her mouth with a napkin, which she then places in her lap. “Fortunately, Stark Industries has been allowed to select a journalist for the press pool. I’d like that journalist to be you, Karen.”

 _Vienna_. Reporting on one of the most influential political events of the decade. It’s an opportunity that most journalists never even get close to, and she’s only been working for the Bulletin for three months. 

But something gives Karen pause, and there’s a question she has to ask. “To what extent would I be expected to, ah, represent the interests of Stark Industries and… affiliated parties?”

The Avengers. Of course she means the Avengers.

Pepper smiles at her like she’s passed a test. “I assure you, there would be no pressure on you to represent anything but unbiased reality. If I wanted someone to sing the Avengers’ praises, there are a number of other candidates I could have called upon. I asked you for a reason.”

That’s… a big relief, actually. “When can I let you know what I decide?”

Pepper hums thoughtfully. “Time is of the essence, of course, so I’d appreciate it if you’d inform me by this evening.” She produces a business card and pen from seemingly nowhere, writing a number on the card and sliding it across the table. She taps the written number with a finger. “My personal line. Send me a text message when you decide.”

Karen tucks the card into her purse and marvels at the fact that Pepper Potts just gave her her phone number. 

The conversation is light and pleasant, about the weather and Karen’s recent projects. Pepper does not mention Tony Stark once, and Karen wonders whether the tabloid reports of a breakup are in fact founded. But she knows better than to ask.

When they’re finished with their meals, Pepper checks her watch and sighs. “I’m afraid I have to be going. Lovely to meet you, Karen. I look forward to hearing from you.” She stands, and Karen follows suit.

“Thank you for lunch,” Karen replies. “I’ll be in touch.”

And with that, Pepper’s gone, striding to the door and stepping into a waiting car. 

_Vienna_ , Karen thinks incredulously.

Ellison’s going to have a cow.

\---

Ellison reacts just as she’d expected — first comes shock, then disbelief, then finally his trademark gruff nonchalance to cover what Karen’s sure is utter excitement (and possibly a bit of envy). After clearing it with him, she digs the business card out of her purse and taps out a message: _I’d be honored to accept your offer. Looking forward to working with you_.

The reply comes within minutes: _Glad to hear! Will send details of flight and hotel ASAP._

Her next message goes to Foggy. _Drinks tonight? 7 pm, bar on 48th and 10th?_

 _God yes. See you then!! :)_ is his response, and Karen runs a hand through her hair and grins.

\---

Foggy, it seems, is doing well. He’s wearing a new suit, she notices immediately, and his tie looks to be made of silk rather than nylon. 

“New digs?” she teases playfully when he finds her in a corner booth, and Foggy chuckles as he pulls her in for a tight hug. 

“Perks of HCB,” he answers when he releases her. “Place is pretty fancy, so I gotta fit in.”

“Sounds like a hassle.”

“Nah,” Foggy says with a grin. “I’ve always been a stylish lad, after all.”

She huffs a laugh, taking a sip of her drink to stall for time. She’s nervous, she realizes, and she has no clue why — it’s just Foggy, after all. 

So she steels herself and says, “I had lunch with Pepper Potts today.”

Foggy predictably chokes on his drink. He coughs, eyes watering. “ _The_ Pepper Potts? Tall, blonde, and scary? A description which I now realize matches you exactly?”

Karen swats at him, but she’s laughing. “The one and only. She wants me in Vienna for the United Nations gathering next week. In the press pool for Stark Industries.”

Foggy isn’t smiling anymore. “And what did you say?”

“I said yes.” She frowns. “Why do you have that look on your face?”

“I just —” Foggy rubs a hand over his face. “It’s just — Is it a good idea to get even more involved with the whole superhero shtick?” He sees her bristle and immediately backtracks. “Not that — Sorry, sorry, I trust your judgment, believe me, I just thought that — that you might have had enough of that for a while. A lifetime, actually. Since… everything.”

 _Everything_. Getting shot at what seemed like every day? Being held hostage, then rescued by her blind boss who Karen had definitely been a little in love with? Finding a ninja-woman in said boss’s bed? Teaming up with Frank Castle? Watching her workplace implode around her?

 _Everything_ , Karen thinks, _is a very mild way of putting it_.

She doesn’t say that, though. Foggy looks a little bit terrified at what she might say next, so Karen goes easy on him. “It won’t be personal,” she assures him. “Great experience, the opportunity of a lifetime, et cetera. It’s just a work thing — promise.”

She’s not sure when Foggy started treating her like a helpless damsel, but she doesn’t like it. The concern on his face makes her want to tell him savagely exactly how she knows she can take care of herself, but she doesn’t think a homicide confession would lighten the mood any further. 

She makes a conscious effort to soften her expression. “Foggy. It’s really alright. Pepper was very pleasant, and what she’s asking of me is nothing that makes me the least bit uncomfortable.”

Foggy’s eyes search her face briefly, then he sits back, sighing in a resigned sort of way. “Alright. I’m happy for you, Karen, that’s — that’s really impressive. Sorry, I shouldn’t have — anyway. Really, congratulations.”

He means it, or he’s trying to mean it, anyway, but she’ll take it. “Thanks, Foggy,” she tells him, glowing a bit with pride. “So. How’s Jessica Jones treating you?”

They talk for a long time, studiously avoiding the topic of Matt, and it’s nice. More than nice. It’s lovely, and comforting, and it aches to think how much she misses spending every day with him and Matt, when they were still basking in the rosy glow of the victory over Fisk. 

After they’ve paid their tab, they head outside, Foggy walking her home. It’s a short walk, and when they reach her door, he hesitates. “Karen?”

He’s serious again. She tilts her head, waiting for him to talk.

“Are you going to tell Matt? That — that you’re going out of town?”

She tamps down a wave of bitterness. “I don’t need his approval, Foggy.”

“No! No, of course not! I just.” He scuffs the toe of his shoe on the sidewalk, and Karen hides a wince, because she’s pretty sure they’re new — real Italian leather. “Just. I think he likes to — check in. When he’s doing his, um, Pilates. At night.”

“That’s a little invasive.”

“I know! I’m not saying it isn’t. But. He does. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard him hanging around, but he skedaddles when I wake up. Like a dumb, skittish cat.” He raises his voice on the last sentence like he wants Matt to hear, wherever he is. “Anyway, it might freak him out if he doesn’t know where you are. If you don’t want to talk to him, I can always tell him.”

It’s kind of a lot to take in at once, so she redirects. “Have you talked to him at all?”

“Ah.” Foggy grimaces. “Just — stuff about the office. Rent stuff, you know. But other than that…” He trails off, and the answer’s clear to her. 

She hopes, savagely, that Matt’s listening in, that he can hear the anger and hurt laced through their voices, that he feels guilty even for a moment. “I’ll talk to him, don’t worry about it.”

Foggy’s relief is palpable. “Thanks, Kare. Hey, this was really fun. As soon as you get back in town, let’s do it again, alright?”

She nods. “That would be great.” 

He hugs her, and she holds on tightly, breathing in his familiar scent, burying her face in his expensive new suit. 

“Miss you,” she whispers, quietly enough that she doubts he hears.

But when he pulls away, his eyes are a bit too shiny. “Miss you too, Page. Take care of yourself, alright? Bring me back a fancy Austrian souvenir.”

“I will,” she promises, and he waves one last time before trotting away to hail a cab. She waits until he’s safely in the cab to turn, and before she opens the door, she casts a look skyward. 

For a moment, Karen swears she spots movement — a shadow on the roof, heading away. She shakes her head. 

“Damn you, Matt Murdock,” she whispers, and goes inside.

\---

She's scheduled to fly out on a Monday morning — on a Stark Industries jet, no less; Pepper Potts is fast becoming one of Karen's favorite people — so of course she waits until Sunday night to contact Matt.

She stares at her phone for a long time, typing out messages and deleting them immediately, before she huffs in irritation. "Get it together, Page," Karen mutters, finally opting to leave a voicemail instead. It's late, so she doubts Matt will pick up — probably out parkouring around the Kitchen.

So it's just her luck that tonight is apparently his night off.

He picks up on the third ring. "Karen?"

Her breath catches, and her heart skips a beat, and she _hates_ it. Hates that she still loves the way he says her name, and hates more than anything that he can hear that through the phone. 

"Hi, Matt." It's been _months_ since she's spoken to him, she realizes; she has no idea what he's been doing, if he's okay. She tells herself that it doesn't matter — that he's an adult and can take care of himself — but she can't stop remembering how he looked when he pulled the mask out of a wilted paper bag and held it out to her — vulnerable, and tired, and so, so lonely. 

Silence crackles across the line, and Matt speaks when it becomes clear that Karen isn't continuing. "Are — are you alright?"

Karen laughs, short and quiet. "Yeah, Matt, I'm fine. I just — I wanted to let you know that I'll be out of town for a little bit. A week or so, I imagine."

She can imagine his expression, the confused crinkle of his brow, the tilt of his head. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, Matt, it's for work," she says, trying to appreciate his concern and finding it very difficult to do so. 

"Oh." He shifts on the other end. "Where are you going?"

She'd thought that maybe she could avoid specifics, but it looks like she was wrong. "Vienna."

"Ah," he says, then, "Oh."

 _Yeah, Matt, "oh."_

Karen forces herself to take a deep, calming breath. 

"Pepper Potts asked me personally. She'd seen my work on —" _on you, and Frank_ — "on Lagos, and she wanted me for the press pool."

"That's…" He trails off, and there's a part of her that wants him to make her angry, because she would love to let out all the frustrations she's been tamping down since the Castle case. 

But he just says, "That's impressive, Karen, you should be proud of yourself."

"I am."

"Good." His tone is even, maybe a bit amused, but it turns serious. "That's pretty big, Karen, are you — are you sure you want to be tied up with the Avengers?"

"God, you sound like Foggy." She can almost hear him tense at that, and she doesn't care a bit. "It's just a work thing, Matt. Watch the conference, write a couple pieces, make some souvenir stops, and then home." 

"Alright," he says. "Just — just be careful, Karen." 

That rankles. "I can take care of myself, Matt."

"I know," he says. It's quiet, and resigned, and all the fight leaves her at once. She's so tired of this, and she thinks he must be too. "I know you can."

"Okay." She scrubs a hand over her face. "You be careful too, alright?" 

"Yes, Karen," he answers. There's a teasing edge to it, just a hint, and it stings bittersweet, bringing back memories — how she'd fuss over his injuries, tape on a band-aid or brush concealer over a bruise, and she'd ask him to pay more attention, to be more careful, and he'd say _"Yes, Karen"_ in the exact same way. They'd all pretended that he had tripped taking out the trash, and they'd all known it was a lie — even Karen, though she hadn't known then what the truth was. 

"Okay," she says finally. "Bye, Matt."

"Goodbye, Karen."

She ends the call.

\---

Karen hasn’t flown in years, and never on her own. Luckily, the Stark Industries treatment does not remotely resemble a typical air travel experience. An SI car comes to pick her up at her apartment and drives her to the airstrip, and other than a brief scan, she avoids the hassles of security and gets on the plane without incident. 

It’s a long flight, but Karen has the jet to herself, and she takes a brief nap and passes the rest of the time alternating between watching Netflix, reading a novel she’d been meaning to read for months, and working on her first article about the Vienna conference. 

It’s night in Vienna when the plane begins its descent, and she watches as they break through a layer of clouds and a world of pinprick-lights mapped onto the darkness below comes into sight. A picture won’t do it justice, she knows, but she takes one anyway. 

It’s a smooth landing, and when she steps onto the tarmac, a car is already idling there, the driver leaned against the door. He tips his hat and helps Karen load her bags, then opens the door for her.

It’s strange, to be wide awake in the middle of the night, and she watches the unfamiliar city streets slip out of sight. Even in the dark, Vienna is beautiful, stately with the grace of age — something that New York lacks. 

Her hotel does not disappoint, either — Karen has to fight the urge to gawk at the elegantly appointed lobby, but when she reaches her room — a lavish suite with a balcony overlooking the city lights — she flops down on the sofa and grins so hard her face hurts. 

She could get used to this. 

\---

The conference doesn’t start until Wednesday, so Karen’s decided to spend Tuesday wandering the city in true tourist form. It’s contentment that she feels, she realizes as she sits in a quiet cafe, sipping a Viennese _melange_ and nibbling at a plum jam turnover whose name she can’t pronounce. The city is bright with morning light, the streets filled with locals going about their lives as well as crowds of tourists. 

She finishes her first article in the cafe — it’s more backstory than actual reporting, so it practically writes itself. She orders another coffee, this one to go, and heads back outside.

By the end of the day, Karen’s quite pleased with her findings. She’d come across a souvenir shop that was charming without being too kitschy or touristy and succeeded in finding souvenirs for everyone on her (admittedly short) list. For Foggy, she'd selected a lovely silk tie patterned with tiny edelweiss flowers, deciding that it combined his newfound fondness for impressive haberdashery with his love of _The Sound of Music_ (which he used to demonstrate loudly and at length by breaking into song on quiet mornings at the office). She'd picked out a bottle of Austrian wine for Ellison, as he fancies himself to be a wine connoisseur, and she’d been headed to the register when she stopped in her tracks.

_Should I get Matt something?_

Her immediate thought had been a fervent _no_. After all he’d done during the Castle case, he barely deserved the courtesy phone call she’d given him before leaving, let alone a souvenir.

But Karen had sighed. She was _tired_ , tired of being angry, tired of studiously avoiding the apartment block where he lived, tired of every single thing reminding her of what they’d had and what they’d lost — not just their budding relationship, but the firm, her job, Friday nights at Josie’s at their favorite table. And maybe, she'd thought, maybe it was time for a peace offering. 

And of course it had been nearly impossible to find him something he’d appreciate. Most of the souvenirs were meant to sit on a shelf and look pretty, which wouldn’t do anything for Matt. Karen had considered getting him a tie like Foggy’s, but she couldn’t even imagine what might happen if they’d found out she’d gotten them matching ties — World War III, probably, so she'd dismissed that thought out of hand. 

Her eyes had landed on a teddy bear dressed in lederhosen, and when she’d picked it up, its fur had been just about the softest thing she’d ever felt. She’d added it to her basket, grabbed a few packs of famed Austrian Manner wafers at a stand near the register, and called it a day. If Matt didn’t like the teddy bear, too bad. 

_Even vigilantes need a teddy bear_ , Karen thinks now, a smile tugging lightly at her lips, and shakes her head. 

Her feet ache from walking on uneven cobblestones all day, and she has the satisfying bone-deep exhaustion that she associates with the vague childhood memories of beach vacations, of playing all day and falling asleep in the car on the way home, of waking up when the car stopped only to feign sleep so that her parents would carry her to bed.

The memory makes Karen suddenly, intensely lonely; it hits her, really hits her, that she’s alone, in a city she doesn’t know, thousands of miles from home. She’d been sending pictures to Foggy all day — pictures of beautiful old buildings and the city skyline and the schnitzel she’d ordered for dinner — but it’s not the same as actual companionship. 

The excitement of the morning, of stepping out on an adventure confident in her solitude, has faded. Now, Karen just feels small. She’s still holding the teddy bear, and she hugs it a little.

Then Karen crosses the room, drops it in her suitcase, and straightens up. She needs a drink, she’s decided.

\---

Karen isn’t in the mood for more walking, so she sits at the hotel bar and orders a cosmopolitan. She’s lost in thought, absently shredding the flimsy napkin that came with the drink, when someone slides onto the barstool next to her.

“Bit of pent-up anger, there?”

It’s a woman’s voice, level and low with a hint of dry humor, and Karen looks up. “Just a bit,” she replies, getting a good look at the woman. Red hair, impeccable makeup, lips quirked in humor — she’s totally Karen’s type, but then the pieces slot together. 

The hair, the voice, the graceful poise — it’s the Black Widow. Natasha Romanoff.

She tries not to react, but Romanoff must have seen the recognition in Karen’s eyes, because her face flickers in amusement. “I take it there’s no need to introduce myself.”

“I think you stopped needing to worry about introductions when you exposed the biggest government scandal the world’s ever seen.” Karen extends a hand. “I’m Karen Page, by the way.” She feels compelled to add, “I work for the New York Bulletin.” 

Romanoff tilts her head. “You’re the journalist Pepper invited.” It isn’t a question, and Karen nods.

The bartender brings over a drink for Romanoff — a vodka neat, Karen thinks, and her mouth quirks. _How fitting_. 

“So how did a secretary at a two-man law firm end up reporting on the signing of the Sokovia Accords?” Romanoff’s gaze is steady as she asks the question, and Karen is pretty sure she already knows the answer.

“How does a trained assassin-turned-secret agent-turned-whistleblower end up advocating for more government oversight for… _enhanced_ individuals?” Karen counters. As soon as the words leave her mouth, she wishes she could take them back — she’s pretty sure Romanoff could make her disappear without a trace if she so desired.

To Karen’s surprise, Romanoff seems — surprised, and maybe a bit amused. “Touché,” comes her response. “If you really want to know — and this is off the record, of course — I mostly don’t like conflict.”

Karen almost laughs before she realizes that she’s being completely serious. “In your line of work? I thought the Avengers thrived on conflict.”

Romanoff swirls her drink and takes a sip, and her eyes meet Karen’s levelly. “Conflict on the field of battle is entirely different from conflict at home.” She pauses, flicks her eyes away briefly, and then looks at her again and adds, “I’m sure you agree.”

Which, _wow_. Karen’s not sure what they’re talking about now — Vermont, or the Fisk case, or the end of Nelson & Murdock. Either way, she says, “You’re right about that.” 

Romanoff studies her again, like she can see right into Karen’s soul, and Karen suppresses a shudder. It’s unsettling, and Karen knows with total certainty that the Black Widow could pinpoint her every weakness with astonishing ease, could utterly decimate her without a second thought and walk away without a hair out of place.

But then she sees Romanoff turn her gaze to the television across the room, where a news anchor is speaking about _tensions within the Avengers, with Steve Rogers reportedly opposing the Sokovia Accords, a stance conflicting with that of Tony Stark, who recently said…_ , and she no longer looks fierce or deadly or dispassionate. 

She just looks tired. Human, and worried, and so tired, and _maybe_ , Karen thinks, _maybe we understand each other_. 

Because watching a family fall apart is something that Karen is intimately acquainted with, and watching Natasha Romanoff, Karen thinks that the Black Widow is becoming acquainted with the experience too. 

And Romanoff turns back to Karen, cool mask firmly in place, and smiles her calm, blank smile. “It was lovely to meet you, Karen Page.”

“Same to you, Ms. Romanoff,” Karen replies, and Romanoff slides off the barstool and starts to walk away, heels echoing on the tile.

“Ms. Romanoff?” Karen calls after her, trying her best not to attract attention from any of the other patrons. Romanoff turns on her heel, looking expectant. 

“Good luck tomorrow. I hope…” 

She doesn’t know what to say, but once again, the Black Widow seems to know Karen better than Karen knows herself. 

“I hope so too,” she replies, and is gone before Karen can say another word.

\---

Karen's not yet adjusted to the time difference, but she sets her alarm for six in the morning and hopes for the best. She's surprised when she manages a full night of sleep, only waking up when the alarm goes off, and she showers and dresses quickly. She'd bought a new outfit for the occasion, a trim pencil skirt paired with a clean-cut blouse and blazer, finished with a new pair of heels that tap authoritatively across the tile of the hotel lobby.

There's no need to hail a cab — Pepper Potts had arranged for a driver to pick her up, and before Karen knows it, she's stepping onto the sidewalk in front of the UN building and blending neatly into the throng of politicians and reporters. The security checkpoint at the entrance to the building makes it slow going, and she’s glad that she arrived early. 

Once Karen’s through security, an aide with an SI identification badge escorts her to the welcome lobby, where men and women in suits mill around refreshment tables. Karen grabs a coffee and a muffin and settles in a corner, making notes of who’s there. She recognizes a few diplomats and the occasional president or prime minister of a minor country; in conversation by a tray of scones is the Wakandan delegation — King T’Chaka and his son, and what appears to be their team of bodyguards. 

A flash of red catches her eye — Romanoff, moving swiftly and gracefully through the crowd. Karen briefly considers making an effort to greet her, but decides against it — she doubts that any of the delegates have much desire to talk with a reporter and predicts that her conversation with Romanoff the previous night will prove to be their last encounter. 

She turns her attention back to her notepad, but before she can make any more notes, a voice comes over the loudspeaker inviting everyone to proceed to the chambers. She sends Foggy a quick text to let him know that they’re about to start and turns her phone off.

And with that, Karen stands and follows the throng into the chambers.

\---

It’s fairly dull at first — there are introductions, and opening notes, and a review of the day’s proceedings, and then an overview of the actual Sokovia Accords. Karen’s standing with the rest of the press pool in the back of the chambers, though her SI credentials got her a spot against the side wall, about as close to the delegates as possible. By the end of the first hour, Karen’s feet have started to ache, and she shifts her weight impatiently, waiting for things to pick up.

It doesn’t take long. When King T’Chaka stands to give the first speech, a noticeable ripple of anticipation passes through the press pool, and Karen straightens up and prepares to take notes. 

He greets the assembly, and Karen takes to him instantly. He’s genuine and dignified, and when he begins to speak about the necessity of the Accords, she finds herself questioning her initial opposition to the legislation. 

“We will improve the world we wish to join,” he’s saying, and her hand’s starting to cramp from her furious note-taking. 

“We are grateful to the Avengers for supporting this initiative,” and Karen casts a glance at Romanoff, who predictably shows no outward reaction to his statement. Karen scans the room as King T’Chaka continues to speak, and her eyes land on his son — Prince T’Challa, she thinks — whose attention is no longer on his father.

He’s looking out the window, she realizes, and she follows his gaze to a delivery truck on the street below. T’Challa’s moving to get a closer look, and Karen sees Romanoff’s head turn sharply, alert.

Karen recognizes in them the tension she’s seen in Daredevil, in Frank Castle, the instant before a fight, and the blood runs cold in her veins even in the millisecond before T’Challa shouts, _“Everybody get down!”_

And the world explodes.

\---

The first thing Karen notices when she opens her eyes is that her notepad is smoldering into ash inches from her fingertips. She’s on the ground, her left arm pinned awkwardly beneath her ribcage. She’s vaguely aware of the sound of screaming mingled with the wail of approaching sirens, but the noise is mostly drowned out by a dull ringing in her ears. Something appears on the floor, almost too close for her to make out, and she squints. _Blood,_ Karen realizes with a sense of detachment; she’s suddenly aware of it running down her face in a sluggish stream.

Karen shifts her gaze upward — people are running toward the doors, but some people aren’t moving at all. She registers the smell of smoke heavy and choking in the air and decides that she should try to stand. 

It seems like an insurmountable task. Slowly, slowly, she braces her free arm against the floor and pushes upward.

The world tilts, and she squeezes her eyes shut and tries to even out her breathing. Her head feels like it might explode, but she soldiers on — she’s lifted herself enough to free her left arm, and she gathers all her energy to brace her left arm against the floor. She puts her weight on it, pushes upward —

— and a supernova of white-hot pain flares in her left wrist, spreading like wildfire through her body. 

Karen blacks out. 

\---

She only remembers flashes from then on: closing her eyes against the harsh daylight as she’s lifted into an ambulance on a stretcher, the sterile white of a hospital hallway, the pinch of a needle in her arm, and then blissful, painless sleep. 

When Karen wakes, late afternoon light is filtering through the window blinds. Her head throbs, and her mouth is dry as a desert. She can’t move her left arm, and she thinks it’s been bandaged and secured by a sling.

A nurse is at her side immediately, helping her sit up and sip from a cup of water. She informs Karen in pleasantly-accented English of her condition: all told, she has a moderate concussion and some bruises and cuts (mainly from flying glass), including a decent gash running along her hairline on her forehead, and her left wrist is broken.

"You are very lucky," the nurse tells her, still smiling. Karen recalls the sight of unmoving bodies on the clean tile of the UN chambers and finds herself agreeing. 

Before Karen can ask about what happened, a doctor comes in to check her over, and they whisk her away for various tests and x-rays. Finally, they replace the temporary wrist splint with a cast and send her back to her room. A couple hours have passed, and on her way out, the nurse tells Karen to expect dinner soon.

Karen slumps back against the pillows, completely spent and wanting nothing more than to sleep for at least twelve hours, when something catches her eye. 

Her purse is on the nightstand, looking a bit battered and blackened from soot, next to a vase of flowers with a note tucked under its base. She goes for the note first.

_Karen,_

_Sorry I missed you — the nurse said you were getting tests done. Glad you’re alright. I thought you might appreciate having your belongings returned._

_Pepper will arrange your flight home as soon as you’re released._

_You might want to check your phone._

_-N.R._

_Romanoff_ , Karen realizes.

 _Check your phone_ , she had written, and Karen sits up fast enough to make the room tilt ominously around her. As soon as she’s reasonably steady, she grabs her purse and rifles through it — her phone is tucked inside, miraculously unharmed. She turns it on.

_19 missed calls._

_32 unread messages._

Foggy, she realizes, her mouth going dry, must be losing his mind.

Before Karen can even unlock her phone to dial, it rings in her hand — it’s Foggy. She accepts the call before it’s rung once and brings it to her ear.

_“Karen?”_

She doesn’t need Matt’s super-senses to tell that Foggy’s been crying.

“Foggy,” she says. “It’s me, I’m — I’m alright.”

_“Karen, oh my god. Karen. Are you hurt? The news said — and then you weren’t answering for hours —”_

“I’m in the hospital.” She winces — she could have said that a little more gently. “But I’m alright — just a concussion, and a broken wrist — I’m fine, Foggy.”

_“A bomb just went off, and you say you’re fine — Jesus, you sound like —”_

He doesn’t say Matt’s name, but he doesn’t have to. _Matt_ , Karen thinks, and Foggy has the same realization at the exact moment she does.

_“Have you called Matt yet? He’s freaking out, Karen, he called me before I’d even seen the news — you know what, put me on hold and call him right now.”_

“Okay,” she says. “Talk to you in a minute.” She puts him on hold and calls Matt. He’s still listed as an emergency contact, which almost makes her laugh.

He picks up on the second ring. _“Karen?”_

And _God_ , once again, the sound of him saying her name sends a shiver down her spine; it makes her words stick in her throat, and she’s unresponsive for long enough that it seems to make him even more nervous.

 _“Karen?”_ he repeats, urgent and worried. _“Are you there?”_

Finally, she’s able to speak again. “It’s me, Matt, I’m — I’m okay.”

 _“Thank God,”_ he says. _“I didn’t know — I got a text from a blocked number saying that you were alright, but I didn’t know if it was true, or who sent it — Are you hurt?”_

“Broken wrist, concussion, couple cuts.” She registers his words fully and pauses. “You say you got a text? Did they sign it?”

_“Uh, just initials. N.R. It addressed me by name, it was — it was unsettling, to say the least. Do you know who it was?”_

_N.R._ Yeah, she knows exactly who that was. “I think so. She’s… an ally, of sorts. Listen, Matt, I should go, it’s been — it’s been a day.”

 _“Karen.”_ There it is: the patented Matt Murdock Concern and Guilt voice. She really, really doesn’t want to go down this road — not when she’s a thousand miles away and feeling like shit, so she cuts him off.

“Matt.” She softens her voice as much as she can. “I’ll be alright, I’ll be safe, don’t worry. Pepper Potts will have me on a flight home as soon as I’m cleared for release, and then you can fuss at me all you want. Okay?” 

It comes out sounding more affectionate and friendly than Karen had aimed for, seeing as they’re barely on speaking terms, but she can’t bring herself to care; she survived a terrorist attack fewer than twelve hours ago, so she thinks there are more important things to worry about. 

_“Okay,”_ he says, clearly unhappy. _“Keep in touch, alright?”_

There are many things she could say to that, but she just says, “I will. Bye,” and hangs up before he can say anything else. She drops her head back and sighs, giving herself a moment to regroup before swiping to resume the call with Foggy.

“Hey.”

_“Hey yourself. How did it go with Matt?”_

“About as well as expected.” She shifts a little and winces at the pain that reverberates in her forearm. 

_“That bad, huh?”_

She breathes out a quick laugh. “He’s — he’s fine, he’s just worried.”

_“Tell me about it. I can’t remember the last time he was that freaked out. I thought he was going to go directly to Stark Tower to read Pepper Potts the riot act.”_

Karen amuses herself with that image. “Pretty sure Pepper would win.”

 _“Yeah, you’re probably right.”_ Foggy pauses, and she can hear his breath crackle down the line. _“You sure you’re alright?”_

“I’m fine,” Karen says for what feels like the millionth time. “I’ll be home as soon as I can. Hopefully by Friday — I’ll text when I know for sure.”

 _“Okay,”_ he says, still sounding worried. _“I’m glad you’re okay, Karen.”_

Emotion wells up in her throat at the earnestness of his words. “Thanks, Fog,” she replies, only a little louder than a whisper, and she clears her throat. “Do me a favor?”

_“Anything.”_

She doesn’t deserve Foggy Nelson. “Call Ellison, let him know I’m okay? I’ll text him right now too, but I’m not up for another call right now.”

_“Will do. Take care of yourself, Karen.”_

“You too, Foggy,” she tells him, and ends the call.

\---

They keep her for two nights, and when she’s released early Friday morning, there’s a car waiting for her outside to take her to the airport. Apparently, Pepper’s fleet of scarily efficient employees have already cleared out her hotel room and packed all her belongings, and by mid-morning, they’re in the air. 

The flight home seems infinitely longer than the flight to Vienna had — Karen dozes fitfully for a good portion of it, and her concussion makes it hard to read or do work (even though Ellison had given her strict instructions not to even _think_ about working until Monday at the earliest). 

So she has a lot of time to think. 

She’d been keeping up with the news while she was in the hospital. Barnes had been apprehended in Bucharest yesterday and is rumored to have been put into confinement at a terrorism facility in Berlin. When Karen had talked to Foggy again on the phone yesterday, he was relieved — _“At least they caught the lunatic. Good thing this didn’t happen in New York — I’m pretty sure Daredevil would have kicked his ass from here to Jersey.”_

But for some reason, it isn’t sitting well with Karen. Something about the situation doesn’t quite add up, but she can’t put her finger on what, exactly, that is. She wants to let it go — Ellison had told her in no uncertain terms that he reassigned the Vienna story, _so don’t even think about poking around any further, Page, do you hear me_.

But she can’t, and the wrongness of the whole sordid tale percolates in the back of her mind for the whole flight. 

\---

Karen's awake early the next morning — too early, in her opinion, especially since she’d gotten back to her apartment at midnight and hadn’t fallen asleep until almost two in the morning. Jet lag, she’s decided, is almost worse than the broken wrist. Almost.

Foggy comes by at ten bearing groceries, having insisted on making her a welcome-home-glad-you’re-alive brunch. As soon as he’s deposited the food on the counter, he pulls her into a tight hug, carefully avoiding her left arm.

“You have no idea how good it is to see you.” He sounds like he’s getting choked up again, which isn’t surprising — Foggy tends to wear his heart on his sleeve.

“I think I can imagine,” she replies lightly, patting him on the back.

Foggy dismisses her offers to help, insisting that she sit and rest while he cooks.

She rolls her eyes at that. “I’m not an invalid, Foggy.” But the look he gives her makes her raise her hands in surrender and take a seat at the kitchen island. 

He's at the stove preparing scrambled eggs and recounting the story of his latest encounter with Jessica Jones when Karen's phone buzzes on the counter. It's a news notification.

_Chaos in Berlin as Barnes escapes containment._

"Holy shit," Karen breathes, and Foggy stops mid-sentence, brow knit with concern.

"What is it?" 

"He's escaped." Karen scrolls through the article. _City on lockdown — Attack on power grid — Reports of division within the Avengers_.

"Who's — _Barnes?_ The mad bomber? Has escaped? Wasn't he in Avengers custody? Don't tell me Rogers broke him out."

"Um, no, it — there was an attack on the power grid, the whole facility went offline. The whole city, really." 

"Jesus." Foggy lets out a low whistle. "You don't think — there's no chance he'd come to New York, right?"

The notion is almost laughable. "No, Foggy, he's not after me."

"I'm just saying, it wouldn't be the first time you had a psycho on your tail —"

Karen pinches the bridge of her nose. "Okay, first of all, Frank Castle was neither a psycho, nor was he on my tail. Second, Barnes doesn't know me. I've never even written anything remotely about him. And third, they're going to have the entire country of Germany on lockdown until they find him — even if he wanted to hop on a plane, there's no way he could pull it off."

"Fair enough," Foggy admits grudgingly. "You know Matt isn't going to like this."

As if on cue, her phone rings. "Speak of the Devil," Karen says dryly, and Foggy laughs.

"Hi, Matt. I'm fine, Barnes isn't coming after me and he couldn't if he wanted to, so don't start mother-henning me right now."

"Ah," he says, sounding guilty. "I just — I heard the news, and I wanted to make sure you're alright." 

Karen sighs in a patient sort of way. "I'm fine, Matt. Foggy's here, he's making me breakfast and fussing enough for both of you." 

Judging by Foggy's wince, that was probably a step too far. Karen rolls her eyes — as much as Foggy has a right to be angry at Matt, she's getting tired of their male-ego bullshit. 

"I have something for you, by the way. You can stop by if you want, or I can bring it to you."

"No, I can stop by," Matt says quickly. He's so transparent sometimes, Karen thinks; if she hadn't extended the invitation, he probably would have lurked on her building's roof every night to listen to her sleep in his weird, slightly invasive but well-intentioned way.

"Tomorrow?" Karen asks.

"That's perfect," Matt says, "see you then."

"See you." She ends the call and sees that Foggy's watching her warily. "What?"

He jumps a bit and looks guilty. "Nothing, nothing!"

She crosses her arms. "Foggy."

He looks even guiltier, and a bit nervous too. "Alright, don't — don't take this the wrong way, but — I thought you'd be angrier at him. For, you know. Everything. I mean, you seemed pretty pissed at him before you left, I figured… I don't know. Forget I said anything."

"No," Karen says. "No, you're right, Foggy. Maybe I should be angrier with Matt, but I just — it's hard to be angry, when —" She stops, frustrated with herself. "He cares so goddamn much, and it's hard for me to be angry with him when it's so obviously killing him not to hover. Don't get me wrong," she adds with a humorless laugh, "I'm still very much pissed at him, and I have a feeling that we're going to have to have a very frank discussion before we can ever even attempt to reconcile, but. I just —" 

Karen remembers a hotel bar, the Black Widow sitting on a barstool beside her and telling her that _conflict on the field of battle is entirely different from conflict at home_ , looking worn and tired.

"I am," she finally says, choosing her words carefully, "very tired of losing people, and I don't want to lose Matt, too. Even if I am furious with him. I just — I never wanted that."

She never wanted to lose her family — not her parents, not Kevin, and now not Matt either. She's sick of being alone, of building something and having it taken away and tearing her apart as it goes. Karen meets Foggy's eyes, and they're filled with so much softness and sadness that she looks away and blinks hard, willing tears away. 

"I think the eggs are cold by now," she finally says, and Foggy jumps — he'd completely forgotten about them.

"Damn. Well, there's toast and fruit, at least. I'll start a new batch of eggs. Hopefully these ones aren't interrupted by a new crisis."

"Let's hope," Karen agrees, and smiles at him. 

\---

Matt comes by after Mass the next day bearing a bouquet of daisies and a Mylar balloon.

“I’m told it has a panda on it,” he says once he’s greeted her with a tentative hug. 

“It certainly does,” Karen confirms, and the memory of this exact scenario in reverse flashes through her mind. This time, they’re in her apartment, not his, and it’s a panda balloon instead of a monkey. “Coffee?”

“If it’s no trouble,” he answers. He’s moving stiffly and a bit uncertainly, and she realizes that he hasn’t been in her apartment before — she’d moved after the Fisk case, and he never did come upstairs, even after the night of their first date. It feels like a million years ago, that night, and Karen shakes herself back to the present before she can get sucked into a spiral of memories. 

She fills a mug for him and sets it on the tiny kitchen table. When she sits down, he follows after a moment’s hesitation. “How are you feeling?”

“A little better,” Karen answers. “The concussion is the worst part — I get a headache if I read for long periods of time, and reading on the computer’s even worse. I’m mostly glad that it was my left wrist that got broken, I’d be a mess if it were my right.” 

He nods and doesn’t say anything, and Karen looks at him — really looks at him. He’s got a bruise on his cheekbone that she guesses extends upward to a black eye, but apart from that and his slightly stiff movements, he doesn’t look as bad as she was expecting.

“How have you been, Matt?”

He shrugs, a wry grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t complain. Been doing work for a pro bono clinic, which is alright.” _Not the same_ , he doesn’t say, but Karen hears it anyway. 

It’s strange, seeing him face-to-face, and borderline awkward in a way that makes Karen a little bit sad. It used to be easy, talking with him, even with all the secrets they’d both been keeping, and it seems ironic that now that the truth — his truth, at least — is out in the open, their interactions seem forced in a way that’s new and strange.

 _It was easier when we were lying to each other,_ Karen thinks, ironic and bitter. She wonders how much Matt can follow her thoughts, because he’s frowning a bit. He leans forward in the way that she recognizes as his trademark precursor to a Serious Discussion.

She changes the subject abruptly. “Have you been keeping up with the news?”

He sits back, Serious Discussion momentarily derailed. “Uh, yeah — yeah, I’ve been trying to. I heard Stark’s taking charge of finding Barnes?”

Karen nods. “Supposedly, yeah.” She bites her lip, then says in a rush, “Does it seem — does it seem off to you?”

Matt’s brow creases. “Off — off how?”

“I — I don’t know, really, but it seems too — convenient, almost? With — with Barnes, I mean, come on — There are rumors that he was involved with the fall of SHIELD, but then he pops up again after two years to — to bomb the U.N.? I just —” She shakes her head. “There’s something that doesn’t add up. So I’ve been combing through the SHIELD data dump, looking for anything that might — I don’t know, shed a bit of light on it all, and I thought you might have some insight —” 

She stops when she sees the look on his face.

“What do you want me to say, Karen?” Matt asks. “I’m not going to — to encourage you, I’m not — I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“What do you — I’m not going _after_ him, Matt, I just think there’s more to the story —”

“And you’re writing this story? Ellison assigned you to — to dig into the psyche of James Barnes?”

Karen stares at him in shock. “That’s not — that’s not what this is, Matt, and _no,_ this isn’t for work, this is just me trying to get to the bottom of things.”

Matt laughs, but there’s no humor in it. It’s bitter in a way that Karen's never heard from him, and she draws back a bit. “You _said_ — you _told_ me, before you left, that this trip was business only. ‘Just a work thing.’ And then you’re almost _killed_ by — by this _terrorist_ , and the second you come home, you’re trying to — what? Prove his innocence?”

“I never said that, Matt, I just said that I think there’s a missing piece — you’re not hearing me.”

“I think I’m hearing you just fine, I mean, it isn’t like this is the first time —”

She’s on her feet, now, and he’s standing too; the table is the only thing separating them. “What the hell are you saying?”

That laugh again, harsh and humorless. “Come on, Karen. First Frank Castle, now James Barnes? Kind of seems like you have a —”

Matt stops himself abruptly; he looks guilty, and Karen knows instantly, furiously, what he was going to say.

“Seems like I have a type.”

Matt winces. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you were going to.” Karen can’t look at him; she turns and paces the length of the kitchen. She knows this was going to happen eventually — she’s known for months. She’s been holding back an ocean of rage and hurt since she went to his apartment that day he hadn't shown up in court, and there’s a small, sick part of her that sings with joy at the opportunity to unleash it on him, to _finally_ let it spill over in a flood of fury.

He sighs. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Karen, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Clearly.” She drums her fingers along the counter and turns back to face him. “What I don’t understand is why you give a damn. If you have the right to go — to go out beating up criminals every single night, then why the hell do you think I shouldn’t — shouldn’t look for, I don’t know. The truth. Justice. Whatever.” 

“I just — it’s dangerous.”

“And your _job_ isn’t?”

“It — that’s not the point, Karen.”

“Then what’s the _goddamn point_ , Matt, I’m getting real tired of this —”

“The _point_ is, it’s _you_ , so it — it isn’t the same. If you keep going like this, you’ll — I can’t keep you safe, if you keep — putting yourself in danger.”

Karen can’t believe him, she really can’t. “It was a _business trip_ , Matt, not a — not an _undercover operation_ or some shit.”

“It should have been a _business trip_ , but you — you’re not letting it go, you’re gonna get in too deep, and I can’t —”

“For the millionth time, Matt, I’m not yours to protect.”

“But I _need_ — Karen, I need you safe.” He’s trying to guilt her, his expression beseeching, and that, for some reason, makes her angrier than anything he’s said. _If he thinks he can plead his way out of this_ , she thinks viciously, _he’s wrong_ . 

“And I need to live my life without you standing over my shoulder. I can take care of myself.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.” 

Karen laughs, a bitter, sharp sound like broken glass, and she draws herself up in fury; that twisted, vengeful part of her is rejoicing, out for blood.

 _“Christ_ , Matt, do you even _hear_ yourself? I _did_ have to, because guess what: _you weren’t there_. All the times I almost _died_ after the Castle case went to shit, where the hell were you? Running around playing ninjas with the woman I found _in your bed_. The only reason — the _only_ goddamn reason — I’m still alive today is because of Frank Castle, that _terrorist_. And I don’t know if, if you’re _jealous_ of him, or some bullshit — but I do know that you feel guilty, and you know what? You do _not_ get to — to project that onto me. You don’t get to dictate the terms of my life because you weren’t there _protecting_ _me_ when things blew up with Castle and you were busy with — with _her_ , and last year, with _Fisk_ , when you were too busy fighting with Foggy to _protect me_ from — from —” 

It’s like all the air is sucked from the room as Karen realizes what she’s done, what she’s almost said, and she’s paralyzed. “God _damn_ it,” she whispers, pressing a hand to her mouth. “Christ. _Christ.”_

Matt is frozen too, every muscle in his body tensed. There’s a look of recognition, of revelation, dawning on his face, and the sight of it makes her ill. 

“Karen,” Matt says, slow and careful. “Did he hurt you?"

She’s shaking her head, and she can’t — she can’t breathe. He steps forward, and she reels back until the edge of the countertop is pressing against her spine; Matt stops and raises his hands as if he’s trying to calm a frightened animal. 

They stand there like that for what feels like ages — her clutching the countertop like a lifeline and taking heaving, tremulous breaths; him motionless, hands lifted, his face painted with guilt and concern. 

Finally, finally, Karen’s breathing has steadied, and when Matt steps toward her, she doesn’t flinch away. 

“Matt, I —” She bites her lip, remembers sitting across from her father in the diner, hearing him say, _I don’t want you here._

She vows in that moment never, _never_ to get to that point — not with Foggy, not with Matt, even after the argument they’ve had. 

“Can you —” She sniffles and clears her throat, and when she speaks again, she sounds almost normal. “Can you give me some space, just — just for a few days?”

“Of course.” Matt tilts his head, just a bit, and he reaches out — tentative and gentle — and rests his hand on her shoulder — the lightest touch, for the briefest moment. “I’m sorry.”

She can’t offer him forgiveness, not when she’s scraped raw and bleeding, so she nods, gaze fixed on the floor. 

The door shuts gently behind him, and Karen doesn’t move for a long time. 

_I never even gave him the damn teddy bear_ , she realizes eventually, and it’s not even funny, but Karen laughs aloud, the sound echoing hollow and harsh against the walls.

\---

When Karen returns to work the next day, she’s greeted by a crowd of concerned coworkers, an elaborate floral arrangement, and a _Get Well Soon!_ card signed by everyone in the office.

It’s nice, and she genuinely appreciates the concern, but it’s a relief to shut her office door behind her and drop into her desk chair. 

She works in silence for a while on her newest assignment — a fluff piece about improvements in Central Park. Ellison had assigned it to her to give her a break, but it feels more like punishment than respite. 

By noon, Karen's beyond restless. She alternates between relentlessly checking the news for any updates about Barnes — still on the loose, and it's been over a day now — and fighting the itch to keep digging in the SHIELD files. It's a losing battle, but every time Karen makes up her mind to pull up the database, she stops, remembering the argument of the previous night. 

It's stupid, but in a way, she feels like she'd just be proving Matt right by continuing her search, and that more than anything else gives her pause. 

Ellison sends her home early — he can tell that she's still out of sorts, although he seems to blame it more on the concussion than anything else. Karen busies herself with grocery shopping and cleaning, and when she goes to bed early without having dug any deeper into Barnes, she can't tell if she's proud of herself for resisting the temptation or frustrated for abandoning her investigation.

She falls asleep after staring at the ceiling for what seems like hours, and then —

_She's standing in the U.N. chambers in Vienna, and blood drips into her eye as ashes drift like snow, and James Barnes is looking at her, hatred on his face._

_"It gets easier," he says, but it's Fisk's voice and then it's Fisk in front of her, reaching out to crush her skull —_

_But the hands on her face are Foggy's, gentle and hesitant as she asks him to touch her face; they're in Elena Cardenas' apartment. It's calm and serene until the world explodes, broken glass flying, and she opens her eyes and sees James Wesley and a gun in her hands._

_She pulls the trigger._

_He jerks._

_Another gunshot._ _It's not Wesley anymore, it's Frank Castle —_

_— but she can't stop shooting._

_With each squeeze of the trigger, it’s a different face.: Frank becomes Kevin becomes Foggy, then Ben, then Matt —_

_Karen screams and screams, and blood is running into her eyes and dripping from her fingertips. Wesley’s phone rings —_

Her phone is ringing.

Karen bolts upright in bed, tangled in the sheets and gasping for air. Her palm stings, and blood trickles down her right wrist — she had clenched her fist so tight that her nails had carved half-moon cuts into her skin. 

The ringing stops, then starts again, and Karen reaches for her phone.

"We need you at the office," Ellison says without preamble before she can even say hello. She checks the time — barely past six in the morning.

Karen scrubs a hand over her face, wincing when it opens the cuts on her palm. "What happened?" 

"More Avengers bullshit. Check the news and get down here as fast as you can."

\---

The rest of the week is chaos — the Avengers have split, blowing up half an airport to prove it, and then the Accords are being picked apart on every cable-news channel once it becomes clear that most of the signers and media haven’t read the document well enough to recognize that it opens the door to the very real possibility for grave civil rights violations. 

And in the end, Karen’s right — Barnes wasn’t behind the Vienna attack. She doesn’t have much time to feel proud of herself, though, because once it becomes clear that Captain Rogers, Sam Wilson, and Natasha Romanoff are international fugitives, Ellison comes into her office and shuts the door.

“I know I asked you to stay away from the Accords, after…” He gestures vaguely at her and clears his throat. “But I take it back. I need you to look into how all this might impact Hell’s Kitchen’s own darling vigilantes. People are getting worried, and since you seem to be our resident expert on Daredevil and his buddies —”

 _You have no idea,_ Karen thinks.

“— it seems like you’re the best qualified to write the piece. You in?”

“I’m on it, boss,” Karen says. It’s a hell of a lot better than park renovations — she’ll take it. 

In the chaos of the week, she’d almost forgotten about Matt and their argument — almost, but not quite. He’s respected her wishes and hasn’t contacted her, although Karen’s certain he still checks on her while he makes his rounds at night. 

She’d seen Foggy, though — they'd gone out to dinner two nights ago, since drinks were out of the question thanks to Karen’s not-quite-healed concussion. Karen had noted with a bit of pride that Foggy was wearing the tie she’d bought him.

When he saw it catch her attention, he'd beamed. “You wouldn’t believe how many compliments I got today. Lady lawyers dig it when men wear flower patterns.” He'd frowned and added, “Although Jessica Jones was pretty rude about it.”

It had been a nice meal until Foggy had asked, “Did Matt come and see you like he said he would?”

The mouthful of pasta Karen had just taken turned to ash in her mouth, and her emotions must have been clear on her face, because Foggy had sucked air through his teeth, wincing sympathetically. “Oh boy. That bad?”

“Worse, actually.” She'd taken a careful sip of her water and avoided his gaze.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not in the slightest.”

And they’d left it at that. 

Karen can’t avoid it — avoid _him_ — forever, though. She knows she has every right to be angry, to push Matt away for good, and there are times that week when she thinks about his accusations — _First Frank Castle, now James Barnes, kind of seems like you have a_ — and the familiar rage bubbles up inside her, hot and acidic. 

But it never lasts long, because Karen remembers sitting across from Frank as he tells her, _you have everything, so hold onto it_. She remembers Natasha Romanoff in a hotel bar, remembers lying on broken glass and wondering if she was going to die alone in a foreign city, remembers the relief in Matt’s voice when he picked up the phone on the second ring and said her name like a prayer.

And she’s still hurt, and angry, but mostly she’s just sad. They’d been doomed from the start, Karen realizes. As real as it had felt — and maybe it _had_ been real, when they kissed in the rain, when he’d smiled across the table at her, the colors of the chili pepper lights reflecting on his glasses, when he’d kissed her forehead like it was the most natural thing in the world, because she wants so badly for it to have been real — 

And that was the problem from the very start, she knows. They’d wanted so desperately to be normal, to find the everyday happiness that seemed to come so easy to the rest of the world, that they were willing to forfeit the truth. Matt had played the part of the dashing lawyer and Karen the part of the sweet, innocent secretary, and they’d performed the roles so well they’d almost convinced themselves that it could last forever — an eternity of summer evening strolls and forehead kisses and dinner dates.

But the dashing lawyer was an outlaw all along, and the sweet secretary had blood on her hands and secrets eating her alive.

Maybe it _was_ real in a way, Karen thinks. The love was real, but the lovers weren’t, and so it could never last.

It’s oddly comforting, that realization, and it’s almost enough to make up her mind, to compel her to pick up the phone and place the call. 

Almost.

The last straw is Tony Stark.

When Helmut Zemo is in custody and Barnes extradited to Wakanda, Stark Industries holds a press conference. Half of the Avengers are wanted fugitives, after all, including Natasha Romanoff. Despite Karen’s best efforts, Ellison doesn’t let her go to the conference.

“Last time you got involved with SI, you nearly got blown up,” he tells her firmly. “You’re sitting this one out.”

So she stays at the Bulletin for the day and watches the broadcast on the TV in the break room, which is at least a bit quieter than the bullpen. Onscreen, Stark gets introduced by the head of the SI public relations division, which is — a bit odd, because Karen thought that that task usually fell to Pepper Potts.

Who, Karen realizes when the camera pans out, is nowhere to be seen. 

Then Tony Stark takes the stage, and when the camera focuses in on him, Karen stifles a gasp.

He looks awful.

All the makeup in the world couldn’t hide the horrendous bruises spread across his face like inkblots. Half-healed cuts linger on his temple, and when he rests his hands on the podium, Karen can see scabs where his knuckles had split. 

But even more striking is his demeanor. Gone are the trademark Tony Stark swagger, the witty remarks, the crooked, roguish grin. And there’s something about the look in his eyes — defeat, regret — that’s so familiar it makes her shudder.

It’s so unexpected, so unsettling, that Karen misses most of his prepared opening remarks because she’s studying his appearance instead. When she finally refocuses, he’s finishing the official statement, talking about _sincere regrets_ and _financial restitution_.

The Q&A portion follows, and Karen’s almost glad she’s not there — she isn’t sure that she could fulfill her journalistic duties, asking the tough questions, when Stark looks like the life’s been kicked out of him. Most of the questions are standard, asking for a response to criticisms of the Accords and for clarity on the direction of the Avengers, and Stark’s answers are carefully devoid of any real information. 

But then the reporters get gutsy and probe further — asking for updates on Colonel James Rhodes, asking if Stark knows the whereabouts of Romanoff and Rogers, asking if there’s any truth to the tabloid reports about the end of Stark’s romantic involvement with Pepper Potts — and when Stark’s answered or parried those inquiries (directing a “No comment” at the final question), he thanks the crowd and leaves the stage. 

“Poor guy,” someone says, and Karen jumps, startled — she’s been joined by one of her coworkers. Morris, from Features.

“What?”

“Stark,” Morris says, nodding at the screen. “Potts dumped him, Rogers beat his ass and went on the run, and word is that Rhodes is gonna be laid up for weeks. I mean, I never liked him much, but.” He shrugs. “Can’t help but feel bad for him.”

“Yeah,” Karen says. She sits there, her coffee going cold, long after Morris leaves. The conference is over, and onscreen a panel of commentators is recapping it. An image of Stark at the podium fills the screen for a moment, and Karen can’t look away. The bruises, the cuts, the _look_ on his face — and she realizes suddenly why it seems like deja vu.

She’s seen Matt looking the same way. 

The minute she leaves work, Karen taps out a text message and hits _send_ before she can lose her nerve.

She's waited long enough, and so, she thinks, has he.

\---

The bells of the church two blocks from Karen’s apartment are still tolling the hour when Matt knocks on her door at six o'clock sharp the following evening. 

She unlatches the chain and steps aside as she pulls the door open. “Hey, Matt. Come on in.” She’s doing her best to sound casual.

He matches her tone. “Hi, Karen.” He shrugs off his suit coat and hangs it carefully on the coat rack by the door, then follows her further into her apartment. He stops, a bit awkwardly, halfway between the door and the kitchen.

“Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Water’s fine,” he replies politely. “Thanks.”

Karen hands Matt his glass and moves to sit on the armchair; after a beat of hesitation, Matt follows her, perching tentatively on the adjacent sofa. 

They’re both silent for a moment, and the tension stretches between them like a rubber band ready to snap.

“Alright, Matt,” Karen starts, at the same moment that he begins, “Karen, I —”

“No, go ahead —”

“It’s alright, you should —” 

“Okay." Karen clears her throat. "I’ll start.” She runs a hand through her hair, combing it back away from her face and letting it fall to the side, takes a deep, steadying breath, then begins. “I want you to know that — that I don’t want to lose you. Not you, not Foggy, I — I never, _never_ want that. Even after everything — everything that’s happened. Don’t get me wrong,” and she laughs a little, “I’m still pissed at you. And I have a right to be, and I know that you know that. It’s just — it’ll take time to get past that. But the time that it takes, I — I don’t want to waste that by avoiding you.

“But I _need_ you to accept that I’m not going to stop doing my job — with all the risks that entails. And it would be hypocritical of me to ask that you stop — doing what you’re doing, so I won’t try. What I _can_ do, and what I’m going to do, is be careful — not that I’m not careful already, and Vienna was completely out of my control, so that doesn’t count. But I’ll make sure to — to be vigilant, and to ask for help if needed. And I’m going to ask you to do the same.”

He seems to balk at that, just a tiny bit, and Karen sighs. “Matt, I’m not asking for anything extreme. Just — now that I know, and Foggy does too, you don’t have to be all Lone Ranger, okay? Don’t push me away, and Foggy either — and I know that you guys aren’t talking, I get it, and it’s not my place to get in the middle of that. Even if I have ended up very much in the middle of it in the past. But in the end, he still cares about you, and I know you care about him, too — you’re not very subtle about checking up on people. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.”

Karen’s said her piece, so she sits and waits for his response. His head is angled downward, his brow furrowed in thought, but he finally tilts his face toward her.

“You’re right, Karen. About — about all of it, really. And I’m sorry, for — for everything I said, and for the Castle case — you and Foggy deserved so much better than that.” Matt stops and takes a breath. “And for the way I treated you, I just —” He sighs. “Like you said, you have every right to be mad. I wouldn’t blame you a bit if you never wanted to speak to me again. The fact that you’re giving me a chance to — if not to make things right, then at least to try — it’s more than I deserve.”

Karen’s breath catches in her throat, and she leans forward. “You would do exactly the same for me.”

Even as she says it, she prays it’s true. She’d gotten close enough to revealing her own secret during their argument to realize that it’s overwhelmingly likely that the truth will out, whether by her own choice or not; the thought of it makes her nauseous. 

The knitting of his brow tells Karen that Matt’s noticed the tension underlying her words, but luckily, he doesn’t address it. 

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” he says, and Karen’s immediately on edge, her mind racing with fear at the possibilities. _Does he know about Wesley? Did he find out somehow? Is it Fisk?_

“I’m thinking of stopping my — my night job.”

It’s not at all what Karen expected or dreaded, but even as her anxiety ebbs, the gravity of his words sink in. 

“Oh,” she manages, struck dumb. “Um. Why?”

He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose before saying, “Several reasons.” 

She waits.

He’s clearly steeling himself to say something, and Karen’s about to prompt him when he finally opens his mouth.

“Electra died. Fighting the Hand with me, she — she was killed. Protecting me.”

Karen’s mouth falls open, and she sucks in a breath. “Jesus, Matt, I — I’m sorry. I had no idea — ”

“I know,” he cuts her off, but gently. “I know you didn't. Between that, and looking back on the Castle case, and now with the Accords, I just — I think it’s time to step back. Try to just be Matt Murdock.”

“Alright,” Karen says softly. “I think — that might be good for you.”

Matt shrugs, fiddling with his glasses in one hand. “Hope so.” His face is open, raw and vulnerable and tentative.

They sit in silence for a moment, long enough that Karen is about to stand, when he speaks again.

“Karen.”

“Yeah, Matt?”

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t there when you needed me. With Castle, and before that —” He stops, choosing his words carefully. “I won’t ask you what happened. If you ever want to talk, though...” He trails off and shrugs, finishing, "I'm here."

Karen nods, ducking her head. “Okay. Thanks, Matt.” Her voice is barely audible, and she’s unspeakably grateful that he hadn’t pressed her any further, because she thinks it might have undone the progress they’d made.

Matt nods and shifts in his seat, done speaking but unwilling to stand until she does, so she spares him any further discomfort and rises. “I have a lasagna in the oven if you want to stay for dinner.” 

He stands too, and for a second she thinks he’s going to decline, make an excuse and head off into the darkening evening, like he always does.

But instead he smiles — small, and crooked, but genuine, and she can’t help but smile back.

“Is it filled with virtue?”

Karen laughs, startled but pleased at the joke. “Different recipe — I promise it’s just as good, though.”

“Well, in that case, how can I refuse?” 

And there he is — dashing Matt Murdock, armed with a charming grin. The sight would have made her swoon, months ago, but here, today, they’ve cast the act aside, finally able to be honest with each other and with themselves.

They’ll never go back to normal, but that’s not the point, Karen thinks. It’s enough for tonight to share a meal, to talk about her latest article, to be reacquainted as friends and nothing more. 

Matt laughs when Karen gives him his souvenir, and when she sees him to the door after the table’s been cleared, she pulls him into a brief hug before any awkwardness can build, and his hand comes to rest between her shoulder blades before she pulls away. 

“Thank you for dinner, Karen,” he tells her sincerely. “This was nice.”

“It was,” she agrees. “We should do it again sometime.”

Matt nods, and his smile is like sun through clouds. Karen watches him as he walks away, until he turns a corner and disappears — but not before he turns to wave at her one last time. 

There’s a long road ahead, she knows, but for the first time in months, Karen feels like she’s headed in the right direction. 

**Author's Note:**

> I want to clarify my personal position on the Matt/Karen relationship in season 2 and explain my portrayal of it here. I think the on-screen portrayal of their brief romance is absolutely beautiful, and as always, the acting is amazing. That said, in my opinion, it seems clear from the start that it isn't going to work out, at least not at that point in the characters' lives. I wanted to explore the idea that Matt and Karen both have a desire to become what the other person sees them as, and their relationship is a way of pursuing that desire. I hope I did their relationship (and its aftermath) justice. I'm neither for nor against the idea of rekindled romance between them, and as sad as I am that Daredevil was cancelled, I think that it ended in a very hopeful and happy place.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feedback is much appreciated!


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